I Just Can't Get Enough
by carriesagun
Summary: Dean is a new boy at Cold Mountain Penitentiary. This story follows him through his career, from 1928 to 1935, wherein he gets married and falls in love but not to the same person & learns about miracles. Eventual Dean/Brutus.


**A/N:- My first multi-chaptered fic in AGES! I hope you guys like it!**

After a stressful interview and an anxious wait to see if he'd got the job, Dean Stanton stood, arms out, legs out, being measured up for the uniform that was prescribed by the Louisiana State Governing Board for all guards at Cold Mountain Penitentiary. He looked at the hat with a measure of disdain – in this roasting mid-July heat, sweat already settling along his spine, he dreaded putting a damn hat on. Seemed almost perverse to make a man wear a hat when the mercury showed 90F in the shade.

But, a job was a job, and Dean was just pleased to have one.

"All done, Mr Stanton," the tailor said, writing a few notes in his jotter and smiling, showing a huge gap between his front teeth which took your attention whenever he spoke. Dean smiled back nervously, picking up his thin summer jacket and slipping it over his arm. "When d'you start?"

"Monday, but Warden Moores said I can wear a suit until my uniform's all done," Dean replied, trying to head for the door to prevent further discussion which would keep him hold up in this pressure-cooker of heat.

The tailor paused, and Dean had nearly reached the door before he spoke again. "You sure you're up to this job, lad?" he asked, taking in how young Dean was, small and slight, too, if the measurements he'd taken were as accurate as he knew they were.

It was 1928, and Dean had never felt fitter or better equipped to do any job thrown his way. He had a girl, Christine, and they were going to get married in the fall, all white and reds like her parent's wedding day. He was twenty-four, and never happier before in his life. "I'm sure I'll manage, boss," he replied, pointedly leaving the room and entering the labyrinth of corridors that made up Cold Mountain Penitentiary. He half-wished he'd bump into either Warden Moores or Paul Edgecomb, the two men who were to be his bosses, so they could show him the way out, save him aimlessly wandering in the summer heat. The pay was good; enough that he and Christine would be able to buy themselves a little house sometime around Christmas, maybe even have a goose for Christmas lunch.

He found the staff door after just a few minutes of walking, and let himself out into the searing heat, shading his eyes against the blaring sun to locate the small stony drive which lead to the main asphalt road. He would drive himself here on Monday; Christine's daddy, John, said he'd loan Dean his GM to drive for his first day at work, save the boy catching the bus into work, which would be a blessing if this heat didn't break. Dean had a lot of time for John, which had become mutual respect – worked pretty well when you wanted to marry a man's only daughter.

Dean could feel the heat rising through the soles of his shoes, seeming to radiate up his legs and make everything sweat harder than it had been all day previously. He wished he'd worn the pale cotton pants rather than the smart black ones he was now wearing to make a good impression, but, with unemployment at an all time high, he was just pleased to have a job. A little discomfort was well worth the thought of a regular wage.

And who knows? In ten years, it could be Warden Stanton presiding over the Green Mile.

"And here are your keys," Paul Edgecomb said, handing Dean, the new recruit, a huge key ring laden with keys. "Don't worry none, you'll pick up which key goes to which lock in a short time," he said, smiling kindly, and expression which made his eyes wrinkle in a fatherly way.

Dean attached the keys to his belt, which was already unable to function as a belt due to the weight tugging it downwards. "Thanks, Boss," he said, returning the smile. "My uniform will be fixed up by Wednesday," he added, looking down at his plain black suit and smart white shirt, which seemed to be stark in comparison to the dark blue uniforms the other guards were wearing.

"It's Paul, Dean; we're all on the level here, no Boss, aside from Warden Moores," Paul replied, sensing that Brutal was behind him and nodding furiously.

"And don't call me Mr Howell," Brutus added, arms crossed, body language as stand-offish as ever. So far, though, he'd been nothing but kind to the new kid, something Dean was pleased about.

"I'll do my best," Dean replied, wondering if his smile was showing how nervous he was.

"Good. Come on, then, let's show you what we do here," Paul said, beckoning him down the Mile to introduce him to the inmates. "Michael, this here is Boss Stanton, alright?" he said after knocking on the door of one of the cells at the furthest end of the Mile from the desk. A young looking man glanced up from the floor where he was staring and flashed a half-grin, half-grimace at Dean. His dark hair seemed to stick like glue to his sweaty face, his eyes sunken and pale skin sallow and sick-looking.

"Yes Boss," Michael answered, the words sounding teasing and unkind. Dean hardened himself to the feeling; he guessed that he would have to get used to being spoken to like that in order to keep this job.

"Good," Paul stated, then lead Dean onto the next cell that was occupied by a considerably older man who was reading a book. Dean noticed that it was a Bible; he saw the irony, and managed not to smile at it, another quality which Paul had liked in the young man at interview. He could be as stoic as a widow at a funeral when the need arose, or have a laugh and joke with you when the time was right. "This is Andrew, our first and only priest sentenced to death by Louisiana. Andrew, this is Boss Stanton."

"Hello," Andrew said, voice almost devoid of any accent and emotion, getting up and coming to the bars to speak to the guards. Paul took a step back, keeping himself an arm's length away from the bars, and tugged on Dean's sleeve to bring him back a step, too.

"Always, always, always stay an arms length away from the cell doors unless you're going into the cell," Paul said, slightly as an aside to Dean, who nodded in agreement and understanding.

"Stop them grabbing you?" Dean said, quirking the statement into a question with a rising inflection at the end of the phrase.

"Exactly," Paul replied, noting how quick the youngster was catching onto how things ran around here. He thought he'd be a great addition to the team, if he continued the way he was going. Paul turned back to the inmate, and fixed him a warm smile, before he asked, "Andrew, what were you going to say?"

"Just a quick hello to the new guard, Boss," the inmate replied, Bible still in hand as he leant against his bars like a cowboy propping up a completely different type of bar. His intelligent stare, which seemed filled with menace and unsaid words, raised goose bumps along Dean's arms, despite the blazing heat in the Mile. "How'd you do?"

"Just fine, thanks," Dean responded, voice level and nearly as relaxed as it would be if he was talking about the baseball. Paul watched them both closely, but let Dean take the lead in the interaction, interested in what the newcomer would say and do. "What's your favourite verse?" Dean asked, nodding in the direction of the Bible.

Andrew twitched the Bible in his hand, as though asking the book itself what he should say, then he answered the question, a smile still playing on his lips. "Proverbs, 20:22; '_Do not say, "I will repay evil"; wait for the Lord, and he will deliver you_,'" Andrew replied, that stare unwavering.

Dean nodded. "Good choice," he said, smiled, then walked away, out of sight of the cell and heading towards the only locked door on the mile. Paul followed, noticing how Andrew seemed to be rather irritated that the conversation had ended on Dean's terms rather than his own.

"Well handled, Dean," he said when they were out of earshot, clapping the younger man on the back. "I think you'll get on here just fine."

"What's in there?" Dean asked, indicating the metal door he was now standing in front of, smiling at the compliment that his new boss had just paid him.

"Unlock it, find out," Paul answered, stepping to the hinge side of the door to give Dean space to unlock the door. Dean fumbled through his keys, trying each one individually until he located the key that unlocked the door. He turned it and pushed the door inwards, nearly jumping out of his skin when the door stopped all of a sudden as it caught on something inside the little room.

Paul flicked on the light, and Dean took a few steps inside the small, claustrophobic room. The walls were padded with soft material, as was the ceiling, floor and the room-side of the door. At least, the small amount of room he could see was covered with the soft material. The majority of the room was stacked with furniture; chairs, desks, filing cabinets and assorted other pieces of furniture. "A padded room filled with furniture," Dean said, answering his own question.

"Yeah, we should probably do something with it. Maybe when winter comes around again, we'll empty it out," Paul said, peering into the room over Dean's right shoulder. "Lock her up, and I'll show you Old Sparky," he said, stepping out of the room and walking down the centre of the Mile, a spring in his step.


End file.
